Under my Umbrella
by QueenieFox
Summary: The wedding is over and Sherlock is still in love with John, the man he died for; the man he would kill for. He needs someone to love him and so he goes to the only other person he knows FOR CERTAIN can care for a ridiculous man like him. Mylock Holmescest. WARNING: incest!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N- This story contains an incest pairing so if you aren't into that, please don't read!**

**-Z. Emrys**

The wedding was beautiful, and the couple glowed with love and affection. John and Mary stared into each other's eyes, unaware of how damaging such a gaze could be to those who were stuck behind a metaphorical glass wall. Sherlock could hear the waltz he had composed in his head like a bad record on repeat. His fingers followed the melody in his mind, playing a violin of air, sliding them around on four make believe strings. It was a shameful way to think; to think he was jealous of Mary and wished he could be in her place. He wished Mary Morstan had never met John, and that John had kept mourning him until he returned. Selfishly, he wanted John to forget all about his new wife and turn those loving eyes onto Sherlock. He did like Mary, but a small part of him still hated her with the deepest loathing passion possible within one person.

The flat was dark and he nursed a pilfered bottle of whiskey, cheap and not well aged. The liquid went down like fire, and the pain in his throat felt good. It warmed his body from the inside out and clouded his mind. He had changed from the stupid suit and into a pair of black jeans and a sloppy blue button up that was most likely too big for him. Without thinking, he stood and slipped into his long Belstaff coat, still holding onto the glass bottle. The stairs gave him no incident and he hailed a cab, the bright headlights making him squint in pain.

"Where to mate?" The cabbie asked in the worst fake tone of voice. Sherlock rolled his eyes and told him the address, then took a long deep swig of the murky amber liquid. The city passed by in a whir that made Sherlock's encumbered head spin in circles. Finally the cab rolled into the rural street filled with rich looking townhouses, all identical to the one right next to it. He got out of the cab and tossed a few notes, probably too many but he couldn't find the room to care. He observed the black house numbers on the post before each door, looking for the one most familiar to him. Tripping on the stoop, he made it up to the tall dark door with a gold knocker and laid his cheek to the cool wood. He banged lazily at the door, the cold sweat on his palm sticking to the lacquered paint. A whoosh of air and a stumble through the door brought him through to his salvation.

Mycroft stood agape at his little brother, a frightful mess in the dim lighting coming from the fire. Sherlock had made his way into the main foyer, leaning against the cream colored wall that faced the entranceway to the door. A bottle was clutched in one fist, completely empty, and his lower lash line was puffy and red, agitated by tears tracking his cheeks. He straightened the front of his opened waistcoat, hanging by his sides in a casual way.

"Sherlock to what do I owe the pleasure?" Mycroft said calmly, though on the inside he was anything but calm.

"You know damn fucking well why I'm here!" Sherlock announced in a fit of anger. The drink really did destroy his usually impeccable vocabulary.

"Use more intelligible words, Sherlock. I know you can," Mycroft responded, keeping up the same tone of the previous question. Damn his coldness, he thought. Mycroft just wasn't good with emotions, and now was one of the few times he wished it could come easier. He wanted to say everything his mind could not. _Are you hurt? What happened? I love you. _

This version of Sherlock, Mycroft had decided, was the most terrifying. Sherlock was no angry drunk, heavens no. When high or otherwise inebriated, Sherlock was self-destructive, self-loathing, and filled with uncontrollable sadness.

"John and Mary. They're married now, together forever. They don't need me anymore. They left me alone. Alone just like the good old days right Mycroft? Isn't that what I wanted? To be alone forever? Huh?! Alone!" Sherlock shouted hysterically, throwing the bottle at the door to punctuate the last point. The glass shattered into a million pieces, littering the wood floor. His back slid down the wall, and he slumped down in defeat, tiny tears pouring onto his cheeks. Mycroft held his hand to his mouth, appalled at Dr. Watson, though the doctor had no reason to be blamed for doing such a normal thing as moving on with his life. It wasn't John's fault that he fell in love, but Mycroft felt spiteful anyway; spiteful at anyone that caused the only person he cared about to hurt so much. Carefully, he approached the younger on the floor and knelt down to his knees in front of him, unsure of what to do.

"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, damning the consequences and pulled his beautiful baby brother into his lap. Sherlock choked on a loud sob and buried his gorgeous face into Mycroft's chest. The elder Holmes hummed soothing sounds into Sherlock's inky black curls. His fingers stroked over Sherlock's scalp in an attempt to soothe. They rocked back and forth together there on the floor, the light from the dulling fire illuminating their silhouettes. Skeletal hands twisted themselves into the fabric of his expensive shirt but in that moment, he couldn't care less about the status of his blasted shirt.

"Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, raising his head from his elder brothers' chest and ending up two inches from Mycroft's face. Their breath mingled between them. "Kiss me," he requested. Mycroft's breathing hitched and his blood ran cold. God how he wanted to taste his little brother's perfect cupid's bow lips; he had ALWAYS wanted to. Mycroft had adjusted to the facts of his attraction to his own blood long ago, though he never expected to act on his feelings. Nor had he ever dreamed that his fantasies would turn to reality.

But it was wrong, so utterly wrong. Sherlock was drunk and not in his right mind. It would be close to rape if he took advantage of his brother's temporary lack of common sense. What if Sherlock didn't mean what he said? Everything could be ruined, absolutely everything.

"We can't Sherlock. You know we cannot…" Mycroft said, cupping his brother's cheekbone, just as he dreamed of doing.

"Please My; for me… will you do this for me? I can't be alone tonight. I need you My. I need you to take away all the pain," Sherlock pleaded, staring right into his older brother's eyes, so similar to his own. He was broken and alone and he needed his older brother to put back the pieces again.

"Yes Sherlock," Mycroft whispered soothingly, pulling the younger man off the floor and leading him through the expansive townhouse up to the bedroom. They tumbled together when the door closed and the shades were drawn heavily over the moonlit sky. Chest was pressed to chest, lips touched, and tongues intertwined. Mycroft gently stroked Sherlock's back, displeased at the feeling of bone underneath his thin button up. Sherlock was working on the buttons of Mycroft's shirt, having already succeeded with the waistcoat, the belt, and the first button on his trousers. Mycroft toed out of his shoes and Sherlock followed, pressing harder to Mycroft's lips with his own in triumph at finally getting the shirt off of Mycroft's now bare freckled shoulders. Mycroft shivered at the icy feel of Sherlock's frigid digits stroke his skin. Mycroft tore the blue fabric away from Sherlock's body, now desperate to catch up. His delicate, manicured hands rid Sherlock of his belt and unbuttoned the jeans.

They moved in sync to the bed and Sherlock fell back on top of it, assisting Mycroft to get his jeans and pants off all in one go. Mycroft took a moment to really set his eyes upon the beautiful baby brother that he loved so much.

Sherlock was truly a god in human form, perfect formed raven curls that tumbled over his forehead and shaded his beautiful icy blue eyes. His almond shaped eyes were set perfectly above a carved nose and delicate lips, thin yet fitting. The woman had been right when she said she could cut herself on Sherlock's high cheekbones. His body was much the same, lean and angular and pale as porcelain. His chest had developed quite a bit over the two years after the fall, so he had quite a bit of muscle strung lean and taut. Mycroft's eyes traveled lower, following a trail of dark hair from just under the belly button to a nest of dark curls and his prick jutting out from it, completing the lean and lovely profile. He wasn't wide, but he was very long and half fractious.

"You are so beautiful Sherlock. Such a beautiful baby brother," Mycroft said kindly, letting out some of the warmth in his heart. He tenderly rubbed Sherlock's upper thigh, dusted lightly in hair. Mycroft drew back and shoved down his tan trousers eager to toss away any boundary keeping him from the friction he so desperately needed.

His movements were graceful and he almost felt adequate for half a second, but ended up looking down at his soft body and grimaced. He was highly freckled and unfortunately ginger. He had a decent face, but his eyes were too narrow, his mouth too wide, and his nose too pointy in his opinion. He had a round face that reflected not the least bit of severity Sherlock's had. His body was soft to the touch and dusted with light fluff, very unlike Sherlock who was practically bare of all body hair. He was fat and of average length, the head bulbous and red. Sherlock eyed him up and down slowly, tears forming in his eyes and he smiled through them sadly.

"I never imagined another person could be so perfect. My, you are perfect," Sherlock assured, taking his brother's hand and urging him to crawl on top. Mycroft did as he was told, crawling after Sherlock who was squirming to the lush satin pillows. Mycroft straddled his younger brother's thighs and bent over his body to lick and nip kisses from his heart to his ear and down the other side. Sherlock sighed and groaned, hands reflexively going to Mycroft's hips and squeezing them gently. Mycroft straightened and they rubbed together, causing shivers of pleasure to ravish both men. Mycroft wrapped his hand around them both and stroked lazily, sucking a kiss into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's hands scrabbled at the silk navy sheets, desperate to seek purchase with something. Mycroft sighed and a sheen of sweat dampened his forehead from exertion, not wanting to ever spend.

He wanted this to go on forever and never be parted from his brother in any context again. Mycroft's other hand snaked to Sherlock's entrance and teased at the clenched muscles. Sherlock whimpered and Mycroft drew both hands away to reach into the bedside table for the bottle of lubricant. He flipped the cap and dumped the cold liquid onto his fingers, not caring when it spilled onto the sheets. Tossing the bottle on the bed behind him, he returned to his brother's entrance, pushing the tip of his forefinger inside and stretching Sherlock thoroughly to prepare him.

In the end, it was Sherlock who came first, shouting out into the darkness, back arching like a bow drawn tight with an arrow. The sight was breathtaking and Mycroft was convinced he would never see anything else in his entire life that would be equally resplendent. Mycroft thrust up roughly and spilled, calling out Sherlock's name like a prayer over and over again.

His strength left his arms and he collapsed onto his side panting and gasping for air. Sherlock turned on his side to face his older brother and curled into his body, shivering and shaking and wailing his grieving lament.

"Shh, Sherlock. My is here. I'm here," Mycroft drew his brother into his arms and held him tight, afraid to let go and see the sorrow that would be written all over the man's face.

"Thank you My," Sherlock whispered, drifting into sleep, utterly exhausted from the mental taxation of the day. Mycroft snuggled close to his brother's body and closed his eyes on the ever glorious moon peeking through the curtains, peering down at the world with her phosphorescent light.


	2. Chapter 2

The curtains were pulled away to let the dim sunrise filter into the bedroom and Mycroft awoke the morning after. The other side of the bed that should have been filled with a warm, slumbering Sherlock was cold and empty. The sheets had been thrown aside and the temperature reflected a departure of no more than four hours ago. The evidence around the room created a moving picture of the events that transpired. Sherlock had left in a hurry, pulling on his clothes as he left the bedroom. He contemplated writing a note but ended up binning it. A cold sweat broke out over Mycroft's body and a brick dropped to the pit of his stomach. Sherlock had run away from him. He was most likely disgusted and ashamed at what they had fashioned together. Mycroft only blamed himself. He had acted on a dangerous obsession; allowed Sherlock to play at his weaknesses.

The politician stood from the bed, stark naked, and pulled a dressing gown from the floor onto his shoulders. He tied the fabric in front of his body to mask his modesty and gazed out the window sadly. Suddenly, his mobile rang on the charger by his bedside and he scrambled to reach it, noticing the time before connecting the call. Great, he thought to himself. He was going to be late today.

"Sir, is everything quite alright?" Anthea's voice called through the mobile, not a hint of emotion or care sat behind it and Mycroft found himself wincing at the coldness and lack of basic human emotion in her voice.

"Fine, Anthea. I apologize for my lack of presence today. However, there is rhyme and reason behind it. You see, I haven't felt well for several days and I've decided to take a day off to heal before returning. Do tell any appointments or meetings I have on my schedule today that I will have their appointments moved to a later date." Mycroft said easily, adding a slightly nasally quality to his voice to indicate symptoms of the common cold. Over the line, Anthea cleared her throat, the only sign she ever gave to being in distress or shock.

"Of course sir; rest easily and call if you should need anything," She stammered.

"Thank you Anthea. Goodbye," Mycroft quipped shortly, cutting off the call and practically tossing the phone to the soft bed behind him.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock wasn't faring much better. He lay on the couch face up with four patches on the inside of his pale left forearm. He was still wearing Mycroft's shirt from the night previous, the smell of the expensive cologne wafting off of the collar and into Sherlock nose. The scent calmed him; it was musky but sharp. It was strange to come to the realization that Mycroft had wanted him. Mycroft gave every indication that he's thought about them together before. Why hadn't he told Sherlock, the one person he told ALL of his secrets to?

It felt like nothing was making sense. He loved John; he always loved John. That's who he died for. But Mycroft was there to help him die. Mycroft helped him plan the suicide, and assured nothing went wrong. His brother continued to be his only confidant as he traveled around the world to dismantle Moriarty's web. Slowly, it seemed that his brother was taking up the holes in Sherlock's heart.

This wasn't supposed to be happening to him. Mycroft was his older brother; a brother he could barely tolerate. They fought and bickered like children. Somehow, bickering had turned to flirting; could it be qualified as flirting? Sherlock screamed in frustration and threw the thing nearest to his hand, a slipper, at the wall. It hit the wallpaper with a dull thud and fell to the floor gracefully.

He was sick, obviously. Something was wrong with him mentally that made him want a physical relationship with his brother. Maybe that meant Mycroft was mentally ill as well. Perhaps something from their childhood had caused the disease in both of them. Were they not around each other enough to grow up as brothers? He was drunk last night that much he knew. He could blame it on the alcohol and file this whole memory away, put it in a box and bury that box deep in a cell underneath his mind palace. He'd been intoxicated and didn't have a clear grasp on his wild emotions. Mycroft hadn't meant to. Maybe he was forced by Sherlock.

The two spent the entire day in their respective living spaces, trying to logically turn their minds away from what had happened. Mycroft called Mummy just to see how she was doing. Sherlock chain smoked two packs in under four hours. Mycroft cleaned his entire townhouse and told all the cleaning staff to take the day off. Sherlock shot a bow and arrow at the smiley face on the wall. Neither touched his phone or made a motion to contact the other brother.

The entire day passed in absolute silence. It felt strange to be alone now. Both the elder and the younger had gotten very much used to the constant companionship of the aftermath of the fall. In the dark, Sherlock called out a muffled name and Mycroft cried out unabashedly his darkest obsession.


	3. Author's Note

**Author's Note! **

** Hey guys I know it's been a while but I CAN AND WILL explain why that is. Recently, I lost my flash drive which has absolutely everything on it. That flash drive was my life and now it is most likely gone forever. This means that all the chapters of the fanfictions you guys love so much are gone and I have to start over again from scratch. So, I am so sorry because all of you guys have been so great and haven't sent me any hate or anything, but do continue to be patient. **

** Love,**

** Z. Emrys **


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